


TMA Song-Based Shorts

by CirrusGrey



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Inspired by Music, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-07-28 08:44:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20061235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CirrusGrey/pseuds/CirrusGrey
Summary: Short stories inspired by music I've heard recently.Song links/lyrics in chapter notes.Marked as complete, but more chapters may be added as inspiration strikes.





	1. Needle and Thread (Jon/Martin)

**Author's Note:**

> "[Jubilee](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q8eb6HC9PoA)" by Ashley Monroe and the Americans
> 
> _If I had me a needle and thread,_   
_As fine as I could sew,_   
_I'd sew my true love to my side_   
_And down this creek I'd go._   
_Swing and turn, jubilee,_   
_Live and learn, jubilee._

It was a bad idea. Of course it was. But Gertrudes's notes on the subject were very clear, and when he'd left them on Martin's desk upstairs they'd been returned in less than a day's time with a hastily scribbled  _ yes _ on a post-it note stuck to the top. 

So he was going ahead with it.

Jon stood in the circle he'd drawn on the tunnel floor, notes in one hand and lighter in the other. Bottles were placed at intervals around the circle, each filled with bits of crumbled stone or crumpled paper, a few with clear water and a few with tea. 

Each also contained one photograph of Jon, and a few strands of hair from Martin. He'd left them in an envelope, buried in among the notes.

It wasn't much, far less than what Gertrude had done. But then, Martin was a far more willing participant than Agnes. 

Jon cleared his throat and began to read from Gertrudes's notes. The invocation (he refused to think of it as a  _ spell) _ was a mix of Latin and English, and he wondered briefly if Gertrude had ever bothered to translate the Latin parts. Presumably not, as she hadn't realized it was a binding ritual until after it was completed, but that seemed oddly out of character. 

Jon hadn't needed to translate them. He knew what they meant, even though he hadn't been fluent in the language before picking up the notes. 

As he spoke, he began to feel...  _ something. _ Not quite a chill, but the memory of cold. Frost began to creep up the edges of the bottles, and Jon would have sworn he felt the phantom brush of a cobweb over his face. When he reached up to brush it away, his fingers encountered nothing but air.

The cold grew stronger as he neared the end of the invocation, and Jon flicked the lighter on, bending down to touch the flame to the trail of flash paper he had laid on the ground. It caught as he spoke the final words, the flame leaping and twisting down the line, weaving its way in and out of the circle, around the bottles, a complex web of lines briefly illuminated in the glow of the flames. 

The last piece burned itself out, and Jon was left in darkness. For a moment, nothing happened, and he began to wonder if he'd somehow messed it up.

Then the pain hit him, and he fell to his knees. 

It wasn't a physical thing, not really. It was despair and desperation, grief and longing. It was crushing, hollow loneliness.

(Somewhere above, he knew, Martin had just fallen out of his chair, overwhelmed by the aching need to  _ know.) _

Jon was crying, great heaving sobs shaking his frame, but even as he drowned under the weight of borrowed feelings they began to lessen. Bleeding down the line, mixed in with shock and confusion and belated misgivings, was pure, unrestrained  _ joy. _

The connection fizzled with it, waves of emotion rolling off Martin and into Jon. He knew he was sending back just as tumultuous a mix of his own.

He felt the weight of the Eye lessen, just a little bit, with the sudden influx of unlooked-for knowledge from the man he had just bound himself to. He gasped at the unexpected relief of it. It was better than reading statements, better than  _ taking _ statements, because it was freely given and because it didn't just  _ satisfy _ the craving for knowledge - it diminished it.

He laughed, giddy with relief and exhaustion. He hadn't actually known if this would tie him to humanity as it had for Agnes. He'd theorized, of course, but... he'd had a far more important reason for completing the ritual. 

Whether the wave of love that passed along the connection came from Martin or Jon was hard to say; it was met almost immediately by one of equal strength, as both began to adjust to the presence of the other in their mind, and the bone-deep certainty that here, finally, was something that could not be taken away from them.

Jon stumbled to his feet, shaking, and somewhere above Martin was standing as well, leaning on his desk with a hand pressed to his heart. They still wouldn't be able to see each other, of course. Wouldn't be able to talk. But they had something much better now, much deeper, and the problems they had been facing seemed a lot less intimidating, in the face of that.

Martin returned to his computer, typing away with far more vigor than he had before. Jon stepped over the line of bottles, taking care not to disturb them, and walked back up the tunnel toward the trapdoor. 

He found he was smiling as he went.


	2. Same Old Used-to-be (Jon/Martin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "[Stealin' Stealin'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_U4TP4Zz23s&list=WL&index=16&t=0s)" by Raphael Saadiq
> 
> _If you don't believe I love you look at the fool I've been,_   
_If you don't believe I'm sinking look at the hole I'm in._   
_I'm stealin', stealin',_   
_Pretty mama don't you tell on me._   
_I'm stealin' back to my same old used-to-be._

Martin had accepted, a long time ago, that he would never be in a relationship with Jonathan Sims. 

First because Jon didn't seem to notice he existed, even though they had worked on several research projects together. Then because Jon was his boss. Later, because there was simply no time for such things what with the monsters and madness and end of the world.

And then Jon died, and what had been simple acceptance turned to certainty: they had never even had a chance. 

Martin moved on with his life. There was still a world to save, and he was the only person in a position to do so. 

Even when Jon came back, that certainty stayed. They could never be together, and the best Martin could do would be to keep his distance and continue with his plan. Jonathan Sims would never be his.

But oh, how he loved him.

Jon's office was quiet apart from the soft rise and fall of his breath as he slept at his desk, and Martin spent a moment just looking at him. He was falling all over again, retreading paths he meant to abandon years ago, but he couldn't help it. No matter how many times he told himself to move on, his heart would always find its way back to Jon.

Martin stepped softly across the room, fetching Jon's jacket from where it was draped over a filing cabinet and spreading it over his sleeping shoulders like a blanket. His glasses were removed with a careful hand, leaving behind a red mark where the frames had been pressed into his face. The teacup was pushed back from the edge of the table where it rested, one wrong move from shattering on the floor.

Jon's face scrunched in his sleep, eyes twitching behind his lids to the tune of nightmares Martin wouldn't even begin to guess at. He brushed a few strands of greying hair back from Jon's face, smiling softly as his expression relaxed again. 

Jon would never, ever be his. But he would always love him.

Martin left the room as quietly as he'd entered, casting a furtive glance around the hallway to make sure no one would see him leave. He wasn't supposed to be here anymore, wasn't supposed to care, and if one of the Archival staff - or, god forbid, Peter - saw him, he'd be forced into explanations and excuses he wasn't ready to give. 

So he had to leave unseen. But he would be back. 

He would always go back, for Jon.


	3. Never Ask for More (Jon/Martin)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "[Mary](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G5OV1JPqlNQ)" by Big Thief
> 
> _And my heart is playing hide and seek_   
_Wait and count to four_   
_Will you love me like you loved me and I'll never ask for more._

Jonathan Sims is not entirely human anymore, and he is not sure how he feels about that. He hates what he does to people, pulling out their secrets and forcing them to relive their trauma, but he also loves it. All his questions answered in a heartbeat, all his curiosity satiated with almost no effort on his part. 

He is balanced on a knife edge, and poised to fall; deep in the recesses of his own mind, down where he won't even admit it to himself, he's not sure that would be a bad thing.

It's an inevitability, really. Built through a lifetime of curiosity, reinforced with more recent paranoia, capped with fear and worry for those around him who charge into danger and go where he cannot see.

He needs to  _ know _ they're okay. He needs to know the  _ world _ is okay, that there are no hidden dangers lurking behind every corner he turns, ready to leap out and carve their own mark into a body already riddled with scars. 

It's monstrous, but it's also beneficial, in a way. With the Eye bleeding knowledge into his mind he can finally relax, knowing he will have forewarning if he finds himself in danger again. 

But no one really seems to understand that, these days.

He thinks about flustered smiles and tearful apologies, justified anger and unswerving support, and his fingers curl around the mug in his hands. The phantom memory of concerned fingers curling around his shoulder brings him hunching forward, inhaling the leafy-sweet smell of the tea.

_ Jon? Are you alright? _

It's a presence he only noticed through its absence, a need he could only acknowledge once it was no longer satisfied. There is something missing, something more than tea and smiles and soft wool sweaters, something that tugs deep inside him, something that makes him ache even though all his injuries are long since healed. 

For all the Eye gains him, he loses as well, for there are things he still cannot see, fates he still does not know. The certainties of the past have bled away in the new rush of knowledge, leaving a gaping emptiness that all the information in the world is hard-pressed to fill.

And even if it did, if he were filled to the brim with knowledge, drawing it all in and overflowing with it... would it be enough? 

And if he could go back, return to tea and sweaters and someone by his side, would  _ that _ be enough? 

Could he make that trade?

But it is a trade with no guarantee of getting anything in return, for the decision is not his alone, and he does not know - he  _ cannot _ know - if going back is even an option. 

It wouldn't be so bad, he thinks. Lost in the dark and ignorance, paranoia and distrust. Not with someone by his side, steadfast and unwavering. 

He does not want to lose what the Eye has given him. He does not want to lose the awareness, the knowledge, the  _ certainty _ of what the world around him holds.

But to get  _ him _ back...

For Martin, it would be worth it.


	4. Who Cares Anyway? (Peter/Elias)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "[Silver Box](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eW_DUGJ4sMk)” by Jeff and Benares
> 
> _I try to write a song, maybe read a book_  
_Forget about the second look_  
_That you gave to that girl in the bank today, _  
_The one with the red dress on, who cares anyway?_  
....  
_I hit the bottle in a bar downtown_  
_Where I sit and stare at everyone around._  
_Whiskey is the only thing that never breaks_  
_Like my cold cold heart, least that's what you say._

They were on the way to the bank to reopen their joint account when the cracks began to show. 

Elias glanced over his shoulder for the fifth time, and Peter huffed in annoyance when he realized his fiancé wasn't listening to a word he said. 

"You'd think I wasn't even here."

That got him a glare, and he smiled.

"Hush. I think we're being followed."

"Really?" Peter glanced back. The sidewalk was crowded with pedestrians, too close for comfort and (thanks to him) all feeling terribly alone in the crowd. "Someone I need to deal with?"

"Not this time." He looked back again, and  _ now _ Peter could put a name to his jittery behavior. Elias was nervous. "I think it might be Jane Prentiss. I've been getting reports of worms around the Archives recently."

"Oh." Sure enough, another look showed a flash of a red dress in the crowd. She was getting good at hiding herself, if the lack of panic among the ordinary people on the sidewalk was anything to go by. "Surely she doesn't pose a threat to  _ you." _

"Obviously not." Elias was extremely miffed at the idea; he threw his shoulders back, straightened his tie. "I just don't want to start a confrontation here. I'm hoping she'll target my new Archivist; it should prove a good first test for him."

Oh.  _ Of course. _ "Testing him already? Surely he needs some time to settle in?"

"He's had a good few months already. Besides, I'm not going to pass up this opportunity." 

"And how much time is testing him going to take?" Peter's voice was tight, despite his best efforts to hide it.

"As much time as I can give it, honestly.  _ Some _ of us still have a shot at a ritual within the next century."

He didn't even acknowledge the dig at his family's failed plans. Yes, it was the former Archivist's fault, and that meant at some level it was  _ Elias's _ fault - but she'd gotten what was coming to her, and Elias had made a promise. 

"You said after you found a new Archivist you would have time for  _ us." _

Elias smirked. "Not feeling  _ lonely, _ are you, Peter?"

"Always."

It was a truth that Elias knew intimately, and that Peter had no qualms about sharing. For all that he enjoyed subjecting other people to solitude and loneliness, the person who suffered most for his devotion to the Forsaken was himself. There was something about it that bled into you, that seeped into your soul and drew you apart from others. Peter knew, with absolute certainty, that he had no hope of ever forming a true human connection. He would always be alone. 

In his darkest moments, he could sometimes find the courage to admit to himself that even Elias only stayed with him for the sake of their alliance. And then not for long.

"Well, I am sorry for that, Peter, but my job has to come first. You understand, of course."

"Of course." Peter smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "I know where your priorities lie."

~~~~~

They never did get around to reopening that account. 

Peter had left before they could get to the bank, claiming there was some business of his own he'd forgotten that he needed to take care of before disappearing into a fog. He'd shown up again, a few days later, but it was clear already that they weren't going to make it, this time. 

Elias lifted his empty glass, gesturing for the bartender to bring him another. He didn't really care what it was; it was alcohol,  _ strong  _ alcohol, and that was enough. It burned going down, bitter as regret and just sharp enough to finally dull the edge of the knife-like memories circling his head. 

_ "I'm afraid I've got to head out again." _

_ Peter's tone was light, but there was a glint in his eyes that spoke of endless, empty seas and the comforting numbness of being utterly alone. _

_ "Oh? Is there some emergency?" Elias ensured his own voice was cool and unruffled; underneath, he could feel the panic setting in. So little time, this time around. Gone so soon. _

_ "Just a shipment I have to oversee. Unfortunately, I can't trust this one to Tadeas." _

_ "I understand completely." I messed up. I'm sorry. I'll ignore the Archivist for a bit; stay with me? _

_ He couldn't say that, though, so he just smiled. "How long do you think you'll be gone?" _

_ "Couple of months, maybe longer." Peter smiled, and it was that special smile Elias hated, the one that said he didn't understand at all just what it was doing to Elias to leave him behind like this again. "You won't even miss me, you'll be so busy training your new Archivist. I'm sure it'd take a lot more than my absence to throw you off your game." _

If only. Peter had been gone by the next morning, leaving behind nothing more than an ice-cold engagement ring sitting on Elias's desk.

He twisted it between his fingers, glaring at the other patrons of the bar. Their vague unease at his unwavering stare was cold comfort for his mood.

It was just, when you got right down to it-

It was hard, sometimes, to tell if Peter truly loved him, or if he was just playing along with the on-again, off-again relationship they had for the sake of the alliance. He kept up the cheerful facade so well that his true feelings were hard to judge, even for someone like Elias. One thing was certain, though: the Lonely Captain had never quite managed to realize how much he was loved in return.

Elias downed the rest of his drink in one swig, placing the glass back on the table with rather more care than would be expected after such an abrupt action. He couldn't wallow all night; he still had an Archive to run in the morning, an Archivist to train, and a living Hive to bait into a position where she would be convinced she truly did have a shot at taking down his place of power.

He'd lost Peter again because he'd been too focused on the job. He was going to make damn sure, now, that the sacrifice had been worth it.


End file.
